


About the experience

by Minas_Desk



Series: Chants of innocence and of experience [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Divergent Timelines, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Headcanon, Lyrium Addiction, NSFW, Post-Canon, Sex Addiction, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-07 06:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12835578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minas_Desk/pseuds/Minas_Desk
Summary: Constructive criticisms,  comments, questions, kudos and prompts are very much appreciated.Thanks To @Shannaraisles for having edited my half-baked English.





	1. All That's left

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticisms, comments, questions, kudos and prompts are very much appreciated.  
> Thanks To @Shannaraisles for having edited my half-baked English.

A cold draft moved the curtains hanging from the window. The rays of a tired end-of-summer sun took advantage to sneak in and bounce on the surface of the mirror that stood over a dressing table, on which were scattered shoddy make up, a comb, a brush. An oily, sweetish scent impregnated the air.

 

The flashes of sunlight obscured the image reflected by the mirror; a bed, tangled sheets thrown to the ground. Long raven hair in a clenched fist. Suddenly, the curtains ceased to move, and the mirror’s image reflected the sight of a young woman, bent onto the mattress, clenched fists filled with raw canvas linens.

 

The man behind her grabbed her shoulder to launch another firm shove. Her mouth opened to groan but her voice broke down in her throat, producing a choked sound.

 

He spoke close to her ear in a deep, controlled tone, his breath barely hastened. “Keep on counting.”

 

The chin of the woman trembled while his thumb ran over her fleshy lips, marking her cheek with her own lipstick. She wore too much make up. His hand opened to rub her mouth, drawing scarlet traces along the path from chin to neck, and cupped one of her breasts.

 

“… twenty-five … twenty-six … twenty-seven…”

 

The man kept up his assault with a decisive advance and slow retreat. When he was sure she was counting regularly, he sank his face into the hollow between her shoulders. Her smooth skin shuddered at the sensation of his thick beard.

 

She liked him. He was tall and strong, his hands accustomed to labor. His body was still beautiful, although scarred; the muscles still retained the trace of a strength that now appeared tarnished, perhaps a consequence of the recent famine that had struck the whole of Ferelden.

 

“… twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thir-thirty …”

 

She felt his lenght swelling, throbbing, and for a moment she tried to increase the pace, feeling close to orgasm; but he grabbed her waist, tilting her pelvis and holding her steady, her buttocks pressed against his hips. She moaned in protest; he replied by tugging on her hair; her body obeyed, docile, her back bowing into a smooth arch.

 

“Count,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

 

At each thrust, a number; at every number, a memory crowded his spinning mind. At every memory, the bitter twinge in his chest became more and more pressing, and with it, the anger from which he was trying to escape rose.

 

He increased his rhythm, seeking his orgasm. He clasped her soft belly with one arm while the other hand wandered along her back, trailing across her buttocks to rest, buried deeply between her thighs.

 

“Oh sir, you’re so good at this,” she whispered, breathless.

 

He just repeated quietly, “Count, lass, go on, we’re almost there.”

 

Thrusts became increasingly fierce and vibrant.

 

“Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two …”

 

Kinloch, Kirkwall, Heaven, Skyhold.

 

“… thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five …”

 

Halamshiral, the Exalted Fucking Council.

 

“… thirty-six …”

 

Knight-bloody-Enchanters.

 

“… thirty-seven …”

 

The Maker-damned Divine. Witch. Whore.

 

“… thirty-eight …”

 

He should have let them all blow up.

 

“… thirty-nine …”

 

Tons of gaatlock.

 

“… forty …”

 

Lyrium.

 

“… forty-one …”

 

Lyrium …

 

“… forty-two!”

 

Her walls shrank around his sex as she felt him spill inside her, with a feral moan of sound. He still gave some uneven thrusts, while all the muscles of his body contracted, tightened buttocks, head thrown back, open mouthed.

 

He collapsed against her back, still offering her the last flickers of pleasure. The man had his face resting on one side; his eyes were fixed on the Void; his face did not reflect any emotion. A tear descended over the profile of his nose. Like every time before, lust and anger stepped aside for shame and devastation. Ruins and rubble, like those of Adamant, the Temple of the Sacred Ashes. This, he felt, was all that was left of him: cold and inert ruins where no flame was able to burn.

 

Cullen got up, leaving the woman’s still trembling body. He quickly dressed and settled his shirt. Then he went through the bag tied on his belt and extracted two pieces of silver, part of the nourished loot of war with which the Chantry generously greased the palms of its veterans to cover their shame. He discreetly settled the money on the table.

 

“When will you come back to see me, ser?”

 

He looked blankly at the young woman lying on her side, naked, her face smeared with lipstick and eyes still moist with pleasure. Cullen felt sick. He felt dirty, wrong, lost. He didn’t open his mouth. He looked away, hinting at a faint smile. As he turned toward the door, she drew in front of him to offer a kiss. He looked at her; she was beautiful, with black eyes and pale skin. He stroked her dark hair and pressed his lips briefly to her forehead. Then he left, slipping the long black wool cloak over his shoulders.

 

Outside, the dusk was falling. The first cold winds had arrived, and the first autumn snowfalls would come soon as well. Cullen mounted his horse. The setting sun struck him in the face with blinding sharpness, making his eyes squint and accentuating the wrinkles on his face. He looked older than he was, or perhaps this was as he saw himself. He spurred the horse on, heading for the path to Honnleath’s countryside.

 

When he came to the cottage, he noticed smoke rising from the chimney. Someone was at home, and Cullen knew who it was. He left the horse in the stable next to the house and entered, finding Mia stirring the wooden ladle into the pot that hung over fire.

 

“Where have you been?” she demanded of him.

 

“Why are you in my house?”

 

Cullen did not even wait for Mia to answer, heading to the bedroom. As he removed his cloak and boots, he heard Mia’s voice calling to him.

 

“You do know what day it is today, yes?”

 

“Tuesday? Friday? Monday?”

 

“You know that Mom and Dad were waiting for you today. We wanted to celebrate your birthday with you, all the family, and you knew. You promised.”

 

“I did not promise anything. I said I would think about it. You promised in my place.”

 

Cullen returned to the kitchen, trying to avoid his sister’s eyes. Pretended to busy himself in looking for something in the pantry, by tightening the cap on a bottle of cider. The hand loosened the grip, closed the cabinet door. The feet moved to the hearth. The eyes feigned interest in the flames.

 

“Mom and Dad are worried about you. Forget the undersigned - by now, I have done the work - but our parents are getting older, brother, and all they want is to spend some time with you.”

 

“What I have left, you mean.”

 

“Yes! Yes, Cullen! What remains, or what the Maker will grant us, I… they… we just want to be near you.”

 

“I don’t think I’m good company lately.”

 

“You mean in the last 5 years? Or all the times you’ve disappeared, and never given us any news?”

 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Mia was no longer able to bear his cynical and flat tone.

 

“Exactly! I do not know! I do not know and none of us know why you have never given anyone the chance to know. You have pushed us out of your life, and I know you think you are protecting us, but that is a bullshit of yours! You think I like watching while my brother lets himself die without doing anything to avoid it! Is this your idea of protecting us?! Answer the fucking question! … all right, do what you want. But know that I’m not going to stay without doing anything.”

 

“There’s nothing you can do. You just have to accept how things are.”

 

“I know it’s not like that.”

 

“How is it, Mia? Tell me, how is it, then?”

 

“I just know I can’t lose my brother again! Not this way!”

 

Cullen looked at her as if he could not exactly understand what was going on. Mia was crying. She was standing on two feet with her arms wrapped about herself and her chin touching her chest. Suddenly, he remembered that time when they were kids; when Branson, as a joke, threw her only doll in the lake near their home. She had tried so many ways to get her doll back, but not knowing how to swim, she could do nothing except watch helplessly as she sank. That was one of the few times he saw his sister cry.

Again, his feet moved, drawing him over to Mia. His arms hugged her, feeling her weight press against his chest.

He would have liked to explain how he felt, but the only thing he could say was,

 

“Forgive me.”

 

Mia wiped her face, pulling away from his embrace. She looked into his bleary eyes, looking for the spark that once was her brother.

 

“No, Cullen. You forgive yourself. I do not know why you despise yourself this much, but I know you have a chance. I read your correspondence. I know about that Seeker who contacted you. I know she told you about a healer. But you decided to ignore her. You’d rather waste yourself by getting drunk and running with whores. This is not accepting things; this is running from them, or wanting to punish yourself. Or both.”


	2. Something In the water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen talks to his father. In my Head Canon (10 years post Inquisition) Cullen's Family still lives in Honneleath. Both his parents are alive. Cullen suffers from health issues coming from years of Lyrium intake.  
> The chapter also explains the current political situation: Vivienne is the new Divine...

 

Cullen did not expect to find his father there. He was sitting by the lake on the wooden wharf, his legs dangling over the water and his eyes fixed on the wrecked Andraste’s statue. Her head was laying at her feet, overgrown with Spindleweed and Arbor Blessing, as a Maker’s kind reminder about the destiny of faith.

 

Stanton Chandler Rutherford was that kind of man who could have guessed your thoughts by just one glance. Cullen knew that very well, and he was just about to turn on his heels to slip away when he got his father’s voice grasping him.

 

“At last! I thought you would never have come!”

 

Cullen sighed narrowing his eyes and wondered how, in the Andraste’s name, he had heard him. He paused for a heartbeat, and after considering the chance of cowardly running away, he turned back again and replied:

 

“How did you know it was me?”. He moved closer to the old man’s back. When Cullen stopped right next to him, Stanton said:

“You know? Fishes are back. Probably I shall come here on tomorrow, just to see if I’m still able to catch some.”

 

Cullen’s eyes softened looking at his father: the man was cheerfully swinging his legs, barefoot, with shoes tidily stowed at his side and socks carefully settled inside of them. He seemed like a little kid about to get into some mischief of his own.

 

“Come, son, have a seat.” He spoke looking straight ahead, slightly patting on the wooden planks with a peaceful smile on his lips.

 

Crouching down, Cullen felt a stubbing twinge in his left knee, but he ignored it, just as much as he ignored most of anything, by now.

They kept silent for several minutes, listening to the sound of the water and breathing the early morning fresh air. The sky was rapidly colouring in pink and violet, although the sun did not reach the horizon yet. The mist was enfolding them, almost forcing the flow of time to a cosy stop.

Father and son were sitting, quietly, each one dipped in their own thoughts. They were so similar. It wasn’t about their likeness, really; it was rather something related to their posture, the way they carried themselves, an inner attitude that gave to them the ability to recognise through the silence the needs of others.

The only physical trait they shared were the eyes: same shape, same colour, same way of showing disappointment or approval, the same manner of fleeing if any concern or sorrow burdened their minds. 

Cullen was the first who broke that silence:

 

“So… Is this Mia’s ruse or what?”

 

“Who’s Mia?” replied his father with an amused smirk. Cullen grinned back, slightly shaking his head at his dad’s joke.

 

“Your sister worries too much about anything, you know that.”

 

Suddenly, Stanton burst out in a relentless cough. Cullen put one hand on his father’s back until he saw him catching back his breath. Then he said:

 

“Does mother know you are here? I’m pretty sure she would not agree with it.”

 

“Ah! You are sounding like Mia!”

 

“You look rather pale, father…”

 

“Now! Do not try to steal from the thief, boy! You don’t look any good either, you know?”

 

Cullen shushed himself at once, as he would not risk an argue about _his_ state of health. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but think that his father and he were akin because life made two veterans of them.

 

Stanton was far from being a soldier, though, he found himself forced to show a firm discipline in rejecting any generous offer coming from the Divine as she first attempted to deflect his son’s purposes. When at first Cullen devoted himself in helping former Templars to overcome their Lyrium addiction, everything seemed to be well accepted by the Chantry Clergy, until those who wished to join Cullen’s ranks were no longer only _former_ Templars.

 

Some within the order began to wonder why they could not adopt a different method to serve.

 

Cullen drafted personally some rules for his division, a kind of brief dissertation entitled “About Faith and Duty” in which the core principle was “Serving the Maker willingly”. This treaty collected more success than expected; the most blatant example was the complete reorganisation of Redcliff barrack, where no Templar was recruited before their 18 years, and no Lyrium use was allowed. It was a small detachment, of course, and probably that was the main reason for which the Chantry tolerated this anomaly.

Nevertheless, the first dissonant voices weren’t long in coming. The major detractors of this reform came obviously from the “orthodox” groups of the Chantry, those who adduced as a justification to their criticism the fact that the Lyrium was necessary to the Templars who had to face the risks that Magic and demons carried as a consequence of their nature. Cullen, on the other hand, had shown everyone how he had coped with this without resorting to the Lyrium, during the last period in the Inquisition.

Despite this quarrel, the barrack of Redcliff was a complete success, also thanks to the intercession of King Alistair who was used to shield the interferences of the Chantry which, for its part, maintained a certain degree of caution in dealing with the Ferelden Crown.

Other minor barracks placed in peripheral areas of Ferelden tried to conform with the new way. In these first glorious years, Cullen travelled all over the Country to encourage and promote the chances that resulted from such efforts.

 

Vivienne, right after her election, was inebriated by the potential deriving from her position. Of course, her attention was completely focused on the most urgent diplomatic issues, however, she felt that nothing was impossible, not even managing what she thought were the whims of a traumatized boy who could not fully understand the glory that came from the sacrifice of themselves.

Though, when she realized that the matter could risk getting out of hand, she backed off. As she knew that the Commander was used to consider himself such an example of integrity, she tried to distract him with gifts to his family and (probably the most effective attempt) marriage proposals to the youngest of his sisters, Rosalie. A good highborn match as brother-in-law would have leashed Cullen to her will once for all.

Fortunately, Rosy was a Rutherford and, as any other Rutherford, she was stubborn enough to want to decide herself about her own future.

Since diplomacy had had no effect, Vivienne moved into action with official orders: she removed the highest levels of the order sided with Cullen, and replaced them with officers loyal to her line of thought.

On more than one occasion, the veterans on leave realized that the Chantry _forgot_ to pay them the expected annuity. For many of them, that was the only source of income that allowed them to provide for their families…

 

In a short time, all Cullen’s efforts went thwarted.

 

He resigned. Again. His attempt to restore an order that corresponded to the expectations of a more just Chantry, in which each one could serve the Maker according to his own conscience and free will, had been a complete failure. What Vivienne had done was just the proof of how naive he had been.

He went back to Honnleath, in the hope that helping his family would have been enough to forget, but the anger and resentment were poisoning him at least as much as the Lyrium had and still was somehow, even after years of withdraw.

 

“Poor Andraste!” Said Stanton awakening Cullen from his constant examination of the past.

 

“Poor, poor Andraste with her face in the mud!” he expanded his mind getting back on his feet.

 

Cullen stood up as well. He didn’t notice when his father put his shoes back on, he was too lost in his minds, yet the old man appeared to be ready to go.

 

“I must hurry, before the real Commander finds out I’m not at home”, Stanton said.

“Mia?” 

“Your mother! She could kill me with her lectures before this cough will.”  They sniggered. Stanton climbed on his horse with thinly disguised effort. Cullen would have helped him, but he saw his father frowning as he tried to get closer, so he stopped himself.

 

“Sure!”, puffed out Stanton when he was sure to be firmly sat in the saddle. “Someone should do something for that poor prophetess.”

 

Cullen’s smile faded off at those words.

 

“Not you, son. You have already done your part.” This was Cullen’s turn to frown. His father noticed it and added: “Unless your heart tells you differently.”

 

“Now _you_ sound like mom!”, replied Cullen with a hint of venom in his tone, just because that old shoe never missed a chance to catch him out. His father ignored his provocation. Instead, he improvised an impression of his wife:

 _“You, mad stupid bastard! Always thinking with your heart, aren’t you?”_. They smiled at each other. Something bitter was growing in the air between them.

“Yeah, well…What can I say?”, said Stanton, “Must be something in the water.”

“Yeah.” Cullen agreed.

“Take care, son. See you.”

His father spurred the horse on and disappeared in the mist that was floating around the lake. Cullen followed the shadow until it was completely gone. Then he came back to the dock. He sat down again and took out of his pocket the letter Cassandra sent to him. He looked at that, then at the Andraste’s head.

 

He exhaled and whispered: “Cullen. You, mad stupid bastard.”


End file.
